Where the gardens of the Louvre touch upon the river is a lonely and secluded walk. There upon the afternoon of the fourth day following the masquerade I found myself in the shadow of a high, ivy-covered wall, slowly pacing towards the round-tower that forms the western outwork of the palace. I had taken an opportunity the chance afforded to inform the Queen of the bargain struck between the favourite, Simon and De Mouchy, and she heard me in a downcast silence. She seemed for the time to be utterly overcome by the victorious progress of Diane. Finally she thanked me listlessly, and I withdrew, determined, however, if even at the cost of my life, to checkmate the plotters.

Whilst tossing the matter over in my mind the sudden rustling of leaves and a croaking sound arrested my attention. Glancing up I saw a small brown ape clinging to the ivy at the top of the wall and mowing at a couple of peacocks preening themselves on the level turf beneath him. Half amused, despite my sombre thoughts, I stopped and watched, until at last, after a stare at their tormentor, the great birds stalked away like offended beauties.

"Pompon!" I called out.

In answer, the little ape turned his ribald wit upon me; but now a head appeared above the parapet, a hand seized Pompon and drew him back, and Le Brusquet's voice hailed me, bidding me come up to him. This I did with the aid of a friendly tree, and found him on the top of the wall, stretched out like a lizard in the sun. As I reached his side he rose to a sitting posture, and made room for me beside him.

"I have got the 'can't-help-its,'" he said, "and came here to let them work off. I have much to say to you."

"You have news, then?"

"Yes; and grave news. Listen! This morning, as usual, I attended the petit couvert, and found myself alone in the breakfast-room, where covers were laid for two. The soup was warming at a little stove, for the King takes this, the first meal of the day, without attendance. I said I was alone; but that is not exactly the case, as Pompon was, of course, with me, and the ape had one of his evil fits. He hopped in front of me, mopping and mowing, and I cannot tell why—perhaps it was because some of CrÉquy's red JouÉ—I supped with him over-night—was still ringing a chime in my head, but a sudden feeling of irritation came upon me at his antics. I seized the little beast by the scruff of his neck and dropped him out of the window on to the balcony beneath, where he remained, content enough with a plum that I took the liberty of lifting from the table and flinging after him. Then, leaning out of the window, I watched the morning, wondering to myself what new jest I could devise for the King's amusement. But I was in a morose humour, and could think of nothing. All at once I heard the hissing rustle of silken robes. I turned, and faced Madame Diane. I tell you, Orrain, never was woman born so beautiful. The rose of the morning was on her cheeks. Her eyes—they are blue-black, not black—met mine, with a laugh in them, as she said:

"'Well, Le Brusquet, have you lost your ape, or has some jest failed you?—you look so sad."

"'Neither, madame,' I answered; 'but I have lost my heart.'

"'Tell me,' she said, 'who is it? Is it La Beauce?—or, perhaps,
Madame de Montal?'

"'Neither, madame; it has strayed much higher.'

"She laughed at my speech, and was about to reply, but stopped, for at that moment the curtain lifted, and the King entered the room. He seemed in the best of spirits; nothing affects him for long.

"'Bon jour, Le Brusquet!' He gave me his hand to kiss. 'What news have you brought me this morning?'

"'A bagful, sire, for I supped with CrÉquy over-night.'

"'Then you shall open the bag whilst I breakfast, for I am famished.' And, slipping his arm through Diane's he led her to the table. I settled myself on a stool near the window, whilst Diane gave his soup to the King, contenting herself with some fruit, which she picked at like a bird. Through the heavy curtains and the closed door we could hear the hum of voices from the anterooms coming to us like the distant murmurs of the sea. For some little time the King ate in silence, whilst Diane and I exchanged a few laughing words. Finally he finished his last sippet of bread steeped in soup, pushed aside his plate, helped himself to a plum, and looked around him.

"'How!' he exclaimed. 'No roses in the room this morning!'

"'You are in error, sire,' I said. 'I have never seen finer roses than
I do now.'

"'Where?' he asked, looking around.

"But I only looked at La Valentinois, and this time she was red enough. She can blush at will, I believe. Strange that behind so fair a face lies so twisted a soul! And as the King followed my glance the blush on her cheek became deeper and deeper.

"'Ma petite,' and he pinched her ear, 'I find I have a rival. I shall have to send him to the ChÂtelet.' Whereat every one laughed, and Pompon, hearing the sounds, hopped in through the window, and helped himself to another plum.

"'Ah, bandit!' And the King flung a sippet of toast after him as he added: 'I am hedged in with robbers.'

"'That is true, sire,' I said gravely.

"'You heard that at CrÉquy's last night.' And there was a sharp note in Diane's voice.

"'Oh yes; and much worse.'

"'Come, tell us!' said the King.

"'Sire, you will remember that Monsieur JouÉ and Monsieur d'Arbois are inveterate gossips.'

"'I will not forget. Well, what did these gentlemen say?'

"'Amongst other things, that your Majesty would totally cancel the edicts you have suspended, and freely pardon all the Christaudins.'

"I had risked my shot, and now awaited the result. It had hit its mark, I knew, for the King began to hum and haw, and Diane gave me a look from those blue-black eyes of hers. It is wonderful how their expression can change. They seemed to grow small, with a hard, pitiless look in them, and little cobwebs of wrinkles gathered near her temples.

"'It would be madness!—folly!' And her foot kept tapping the carpet.

"'Caraffa and Lorraine are right; it would be a sin.' And the King crossed himself. 'No, no! I will purge the land of its heresy. You have proved their disloyalty to me, Diane. Scarce three weeks have passed since the edicts were suspended, and see what head these Huguenots make! But I will let them see that I am King!'

"And Diane bent forward and kissed his cheek.

"As for me, I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, and so, for the present, went warily, and kept silence. And then La Valentinois knelt by the side of the King, holding his hand in hers, and looking into his eyes.

"'Sire,' she said, 'I have a boon to ask.'

"'Ask, then.' And Henri pushed aside the curls from her forehead.

"'It is that you reward the faithful whilst you punish the guilty.'

"'Let it be as you wish, ma petite.'

"'Then sign this, sire.' And, rising to her feet, she took a paper from her dress and held it before the King, standing beside him, with one white arm round his neck.

"Henri read, and his face fell a little. 'So,' he said, 'you want the goods of all heretics condemned in Paris granted to our most faithful subjects—Diane, Duchess de Valentinois; Simon, Vidame d'Orrain; and Antoine, Sire de Mouchy, Inquisitor of Faith! Madame, this is a matter for the council.' And, in his weak way, the King tried to put off the matter.

"Diane removed her arm from his neck. 'As you please, sire,' she said coldly; and then: 'But remember the ChÂtillons are making head in the north, and tomorrow they may break the peace with Spain. Remember how full Paris is of these traitors to their King and Holy Church! Never mind my request; but, sire,' and her voice sank to the tenderest note, 'think of those who love you and fear for you—and—let the council to-day be firm.'

"'Oh, it will be that. I will see to that.'

"'Thank Heaven! And now, my King, my King! for the last time!' And she knelt and kissed his hand, and there were tears—tears, Orrain!—in her eyes.

"Henri was much moved. 'What does this mean, Diane?' And he raised her gently to her feet.

"'It means, sire'—her eyes refused to meet his, and her voice shook—'that the time has come for me to go. To-morrow I leave Paris; but, wherever I go, my sorrow will be with me, and my memory of——' And once more she kissed his hand.

"'Diane!'

"She made no answer except to sob, and he put his arm round her, and tried to comfort her, but she gently withdrew herself.

"'Sire, let me go! I had forgotten that with a woman love lasts for ever, but beauty fades. I have to-day learned my lesson.' And, sitting herself down, she buried her face in her hands.

"Henri looked helplessly around, and then, rising hurriedly, paced the room. Once he came up to me, where I stood near the window, and stared at me, or rather stared across me, as though he did not see me. He was yielding, I knew, and another sob from Diane broke him.

"He took up the paper, and it rustled in his trembling hand. One more glance at the bowed figure beside him, and he called out:

"'Le Brusquet, give me a pen.'

"I made no answer, but stood as if I had not heard. I swear to you, Orrain, that I would rather have let my right hand wither than do his bidding. Twice he repeated his order; but I stood like a stone. Diane made no movement. His face flushed, and with a sudden effort he walked towards a cabinet, and the next moment the accursed paper was signed. He brought it back with him, and stood humbly beside Diane, but she did not appear to see. At last he took her hands from her face and placed the deed within them.

"'There, little one! Speak no more of broken hearts.' And he kissed her. She rose, and let her head fall on his shoulder, standing there with closed eyes, but with fingers that held the paper with a clutch like the talons of a hawk. After a little she drew back; there was a lovely smile on her lips, and the blue-black eyes were sparkling.

"'Sire,' she said, 'I thank you.' Then, with a glance behind her at the curtains that covered the door leading to the ante-rooms: 'It grows late, and messieurs there are waiting.' So saying, she bowed low to the King, and ran from the room into the inner apartments, carrying her paper with her.

"The King stood gazing after her, and I stood leaning out of the open window. After a little he came up behind me, and with studied unconcern in his voice said:

"'An obol for your thoughts, King of Folly.'

"'I was but watching those birds, sire.' And I pointed at a shoal of swallows that darted hither and thither in the sunlight snapping up the flies.

"'Ah! The swallows! What of them?'

"'They are lovely birds, sire; but, you see, they spare nothing.' And even as I spoke there was the flash of a bronze-green wing, and a wretched moth that was fluttering in the air was borne away.

"The King took my meaning, and laughed uneasily.

"'You mean I have done wrong.'

"'The Duchess is a lovely woman, sire.' And I saw him flush with shame and anger—the anger of a weak man. He controlled himself with an effort, however, and said coldly:

"'Monsieur de BesmÉ, have the goodness to strike that gong.'

"I did so, and in a moment the doors were flung open, showing the glittering throng without. The King kept his back turned towards me, and, taking the hint, I picked up the ape and withdrew. So, you see, my news is of the gravest, and Diane has won the rubber."

"You think so?"

"It is all over. The council to-day will revoke the suspension of the edicts, and once more the hell-fires will be lit on the parvis of every church in Paris. I am off to grow pears at BesmÉ. My office is for sale; but I will give it to you, with my cap and bells and baton, as a free gift if within two days you do not place a certain fair lady on a pillion behind you and ride for the Swiss cantons."

For a little there was a silence, and then I rose to my feet.

"I am going," I said. "What has to be done must be done quickly."

He nodded assent. "I shall come with you part of the way," he said, and called to his ape.

With this we descended from the wall, and walked back together to the
Ladies' Terrace.

The gardens were full, for the perfect day had tempted all within the palace who could do so to come forth. Scattered here and there in the walks, or resting on the seats, were knots of people, the bright colours of their dresses all the brighter in the mellow sunshine. As we were passing the fountain called the Three Graces we were stopped by a little man with a round face and bulging eyes. He was quite young, not more than four or five and twenty, but, young as he was, Monsieur de BrantÔme had already acquired the reputation of being an inveterate gossip, and was feared more than the plague. I had but a passing acquaintance, two days' old, with him, but he seized Le Brusquet.

"Eh bien, Le Brusquet! I hear that you were with the King and madame early this morning, and that high words passed. Is it true that you leave the Court?"

"I promise to leave it, monsieur, if you will but take my office."

"Your office!" said BrantÔme in surprise.

"Yes; I have always felt myself unworthy of it since I had the honour to meet you."

"Not at all, my friend," grinned BrantÔme; "you do yourself injustice. The man who quarrels with madame has unequalled claims. You have no rival. Au revoir!"

And, chuckling to himself, the little abbe went on, leaving Le Brusquet biting his lip. BrantÔme stopped the next person he met to tell him of the passage-at-arms, and turning the walk we found ourselves in front of the Ladies' Terrace.

Somewhat apart from the gay groups that crowded together in the centre of the Terrace was a solitary figure standing near the pedestal of a bronze satyr, cast for the late King by Messer Benvenuto the Florentine. It was mademoiselle herself, and with a word to Le Brusquet I left him and walked straight up to her.

"I was wondering to myself if I should see you here," she said as she greeted me.

"And I came specially to see you, so that Fate has been kind for once."

She smiled, and was about to make some answer, when there was a burst of laughter and the sound of many voices, and turning we saw Diane de Poitiers on the stairway leading down to the Terrace, surrounded, as usual, by a heedless and ever-laughing crowd. She stood for a moment, her Court around her, whilst the people on the other parts of the Terrace broke up their talk and came towards us. Then La Valentinois, who was robed in crimson, began to descend the marble steps slowly, and as she reached the Terrace all those assembled there bowed to her as though she were the Queen. All except myself and mademoiselle, who stood plucking at the ivy leaves on the pedestal of the statue beside her, apparently unconscious of La Valentinois' presence. Whether the Duchess noticed me or not I do not know, but I saw her eyes fixed on mademoiselle, and she stopped full, about two paces from her. Mademoiselle, however, maintained her attitude of total unconcern; but after a moment she looked up and the glances of the two crossed each other. Mademoiselle stared past the favourite as though she did not see her, and Diane's face became like ivory, and her dark eyes frosted with an icy hate—a hate cold and pitiless as everlasting snow. All eyes were fixed on them now, and there was a dead silence as the two—the woman and the girl—faced each other. But it was mademoiselle who was winning. Far away as her look was there was that in it that brought the colour back to Diane's cheeks, to make it go again. Her bosom rose and fell, she played nervously with her fan, and at last she spoke, with a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to restrain it:

"I hear, mademoiselle, that you do not find the Court to your liking."
And the reply was a simple bow.

The Duchess was all red and white now. The insult was open and patent; but worse was to follow, for she made a mistake, and went on, with a sneer:

"It is a pity they do not care more for the education of girls in Poitou; but I think you are right, mademoiselle. The Court is not suited to you. You should take the veil and the black robe."

"I should prefer the black robe to a crimson one, madame. The latter reminds one too much, amongst other things, of the blood of the martyrs."

It was a crushing retort, and one to which there was no answer, for the affair of the tailor of St. Antoine's was fresh in all minds. Something like a murmur went up from those around. The Duchess gave a little gasp; but, preserving her composure with an effort, turned and walked away, her head in the air, but wounded to the quick. The crowd followed her, but one figure remained—a man with a white, drawn face and dark circles under his eyes. Thrice he made a movement as if to step up to us and say something, but each time his courage failed him; and then, turning, he too hastily followed the others. And from my soul I pitied De Ganache.